


tired of hearing sorry

by shslduelist (joeri)



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! - All Media Types, Yu-Gi-Oh! VRAINS
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Attempt at Humor, Background Poly, Breaking Up & Making Up, House Party, IM MEAN TO SPECTRE SORRY IN ADVANCE, M/M, Making Out, Sexual Humor, Touching, unrequited revspec
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-25 13:41:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18262448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joeri/pseuds/shslduelist
Summary: takeru and ryoken kiss and make up.





	tired of hearing sorry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [guttersvoice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/guttersvoice/gifts).



> if no one else is gonna write them my multishipping ass will
> 
> dumb stupid raunchy college kids are dumb and stupid and raunchy. sorry im mean to spectre ksdjfklsdljf
> 
> no sex happens, the rating is because i talk a lot about them having sex and make sexual humor

It’s Aoi Zaizen’s birthday and she’s thrown one hell of a party, and it’s none of Takeru’s business who Ryoken came to the party with, or how _stunningly_ his eyebrows resemble the Nike logo: a sign to him to _just do it_ and get the break-up over with again. Yusaku at his right has said as much with his indifference on the issue, preferring to take the Switzerland approach to his boyfriends’ quarrelling. Yusaku’s silence on that boy’s product placement eyebrows is deafening.

“He’s just some friend of Ryoken’s,” Yusaku says with too little weight to sound certain.

“That bastard knows just how to get under my skin,” mutters Takeru from the side of his mouth, drumming his fingers against the kitchen counter behind him, carefully brushing his finger up against his cup and noticing it tips over easily, empty. God, he needs a refill. “He knows better than to show me up with a two when I’m a ten. He thinks he doesn’t need me!”

Maybe Yusaku’s eyes flit up just once. Takeru’s starving brain at least conjures up that image for him so he doesn’t feel nearly as pathetic for how his boyfriend’s been peacefully thumbing through a few dozen Wordscapes levels in the time he’s listened to him babble. It hardly even registers to him that in lieu of dancing or socializing in any capacity, Yusaku has nailed himself to the wall and peeked at his phone for the past hour. It only occurs to him that his problems are ranking even _lower_ on his priority list. Yusaku swipes his fingers across the screen, spelling out the word AMINO to complete the puzzle.

And then he says, “Do you need _him_?”

“No!” shouts Takeru blindly. “…but this is ridiculous and it’s driving me wild,” he says now, contemplative as the events of this morning play again and again through his head.

“Well,” sighs Yusaku, “I can’t tell you how to fix a relationship that was founded on argumentative sexual tension in the first place.”

Somehow it burns to hear that, as if Yusaku legitimately held no stake in whether the two of them got along. In truth, it feels as though he’s gotten more distant from anything they’ve had to do with one another since they’d become intimate on the occasion.

“Do you… think we should split?” Takeru asks slow, a whisper beneath the thundering JPOP and Yusaku’s face contorts like Takeru’s just slapped him on the wrist.

“I don’t want either of you to be unhappy. That doesn’t mean I know how to fix it. I’m not interested in mediating between you.”

Okay, fair enough. Takeru can see the merit in that. It’s just… strange to him to take such a neutral stance, though he supposes showing favoritism would be poor form when he’s dating the both of them. Scoffing to himself, Takeru remembers that he’s in the right though (like always unless Yusaku says otherwise.) So, it’s fine. It’s fine that Yusaku won’t pick sides. He never asked him to. They’ve distinctly both made strides to never get him involved, Ryoken and him, and he won’t break that tonight.

Oh, except seeing that silver haired phantom offer Ryoken a red cup with both hands, a sparkle in his eyes and a bump of his hip makes Yusaku dent his own cup with the ferocity with which he grips it. Takeru leans his head onto Yusaku’s, cheeks squishing as he whispers, “but neither of us like _that._ ”

Yusaku sips his alcohol, eyes never leaving the two men. He swallows hard, licks his lips, squints and says, “just let me know when you’ve had your fill so we can leave.”

“You just watch,” Takeru breathes and makes a B-line.

* * *

Since 5th grade, Ryoken has known Yusaku. It was hard to ignore him. He’d skipped two grades and ended up in the same class as him despite being two years his junior. His reign as the smartest kid in class was disrupted and somewhat of a friendly rivalry bloomed from there if only on Ryoken’s side exclusively.

Fascinating how they’d ended up attending the same college together after years apart once Ryoken’s father passed. It truly was a small world after all. So much time had passed between the two of them and so much had changed. What had once been two giggling, nerdy school boys with duel monster cards grew up to be two harshly introverted men who occasionally kept up with the e-sport (instead of baseball or something _regular._ ) Neither one was particularly outdoorsy, so perhaps this was always the way they were to progress.

Takeru on the other hand, Ryoken wished he’d never met him some days.

Loud. _Obnoxious._ Leaves cheeto dust in his top bunk _which_ wouldn’t be a problem if the frame didn’t jostle every time he moved up there, every time he climbed down or up, or every time he jacked his dick thinking he was being quiet. The dust always came swirling down in tiny orange flecks like a summertime snowfall. Ryoken despised rooming with him.

The only boon was ease of convenience if Yusaku wanted to come over: both of his boyfriends in one place just a five minute stroll across the campus. Yes, if sharing his time with Yusaku with another man could be considered a boon, that surely was one.

Not that Ryoken was possessive, no. Maybe a little but Takeru was as well, equally incapable of accepting the role of number two to whoever was Yusaku’s number one, despite his insistence that no such ranking existed.

Still tension sparked between the two of them endlessly, from bathroom habits to every pet peeve they carried with them.

Why couldn’t Takeru remember to put the seat down? Did he never take a shit? Would he sit his ass on the wide rim of the bowl and somehow be fine with that? And why couldn’t he accept that if the door was locked, it means that someone is in there. It doesn’t matter if the light is off and you can’t see a golden line beaming from the underside of the door. _Clearly_ someone is in there and it doesn’t matter _why_ they deign to do their business in the dark. _Stop jiggling the handle._

Takeru couldn’t just get earbuds like the rest of us? He had to play everything from his laptop for the entire dorm room (Ryoken) to hear and Ryoken could scarcely hear Spectre in his Discord voice chat over the dulcet tones of Takeru’s League of Legends fail compilation videos (which, as you already know, only play Monstercat drumstep at eighty decibels.)

No matter how many times they seemed to bring up their problems with one another, nothing changed between the two of them until they realized the only thing they had in common: stress relief.

In Ryoken’s defense, he’s never had interest in Takeru like _that_ or wanted to see whatever Yusaku saw in him, but you can only play witness to such a bizarrely captivating boy in the throes of passion so many times before you learn to like what you see.

The memories are still fresh in his mind from their last ménage à trois, his chin level with Yusaku’s shoulder as he gazed down at the red streaked wonder beneath them both. Something pleasant blooms in his throat at the sight of Takeru’s minty rims all askew across his wrinkled nose, face torn up in pleasure, lenses just as fogged over as his own eyes are, spilling over with every cry out of him.

It’s Yusaku’s name he’s calling for, but Ryoken had reached a hand down to snatch his hand, thumb nailing his palm to the bedspread like something Christlike, and Takeru squeezed back with fervor. That was all it took.

“So, you two like each other?” Yusaku had asked, nonplussed when Ryoken had expected the boy to show some ounce of concern.

“Something like that,” said Ryoken at the time, unwilling to completely let it be known as anything but a sexual fancy now and again, but what was a relationship but friendship with sex too?

They didn’t tell one another that they loved each other, because who knows if they knew what the other would say to that, but… he still had to ask, “this doesn’t make you feel insecure, does it?”

The shrug offered left much to the imagination and Ryoken couldn’t be sure if Yusaku meant it or not when he said, “I love you both. If you like each other, that’s good. I’d love for us to get along better.”

If only that’s what transpired between the two of them instead of what had become this constant back and forth of breaking up and making up, always over one thing or another seemingly without end.

Ryoken was too unresponsive for Takeru, apparently, except when he needed a response back pronto and had no qualms or embarrassment in annihilating Takeru's DMs. Takeru found himself equal parts flustered and frustrated with how needlessly rude Ryoken could be. His smugness grated on Takeru. Takeru’s tendency to never pull his punches or pick his fights when it came to Ryoken lead to more altercations than could be counted. Dating and breaking up with someone you _had_ to room with was a disaster. What’s worse is the fact neither could find solace in their boyfriend, the mutual one between them.

The only thing keeping them from calling this whole thing off for good seemed to be their reluctance to admit any actual emotional attachment between them.

Boyfriends out of convenience but there were no _I love you_ ’s or _be safe_ ’s as they parted in the morning. Takeru never had a say in whether his day was good and Ryoken would utter to him to die instead.

It all culminated to this morning when Takeru invited him to the party only to be turned down viciously, and an argument ensued in which the usual attacks were brought out: “Why are you so cold and unfeeling all the time?” “You’re never like that with Yusaku.” “Do you even have interest in me outside of the occasional fling when you can _spare the time?_ ”

Ryoken wasn’t going to placate and babysit when he had work to do, interning at the lab his father once worked under. His coworkers were expecting him.

He already had plans, you see. It wasn’t his fault they hadn’t both realized Ryoken was attending the very same party in question. It hadn’t even crossed the older man’s mind. Even now as Spectre (his online handle being somewhat of a tender nickname between the two of them), stood offering him another cup of something clear and fizzling, aromatic and enough to make him dizzy on the spot, he was blissfully unaware to the firestorm heading his way until—

“ _Ryoken!_ ”

Shouted over the thrumming music and Spectre speaking in practically a whisper at his side, “who’s that?”

“I have no idea who he thinks he is right now.”

* * *

Takeru marched hard and heavy, stepping around tipsy soon-to-be college dropouts and balling his fists into bumpy, white maces (that he just might aim straight at Ryoken’s nose). He hardly registers the sound of his own voice over the sight of both him and his little boytoy of the night turning head to find him rushing up on them. From head to toe, hair to clothes, they’re decked out in white and they glow uniquely beneath the periodic blinking black lights above. To their credit, neither one moves even an inch so it seems he hasn’t made himself imposing enough yet. It’s hard to do when you’re the shorter of the three but he hopes the way he jabs a pointy nail between Ryoken’s pecs does the job.

“You, fucker,” he enunciates. “You were so pissy this morning when I just wanted to ask you out and here you are at the same shithole I am but with some new thing. Did you not see me and Yusaku over there by ourselves?”

Ryoken and his boy take turns gawking at each other. The other one chuckles before splaying his fingers all featherlike and inoffensive against his chest. “I guess I’m the new thing.”

“If the two of you are together then you aren’t by yourselves,” Ryoken states offhandedly, cutting Takeru off the second he tries to argue that very point. “I had been invited by Spectre before you had. I honor pre-established plans.”

“Who the fuck even _is_ this guy?” Takeru asks, the name barely registering and not sinking in. “I’ve never seen him come over.”

Just as tall, pale, and soft-serve gets ready to introduce himself, Ryoken waves the back of his hand his way and doesn’t let his eyes leave Takeru’s sight. “He’s a friend. I’m well aware you don’t fraternize outside of your infatuations but I do.”

Oh, they’ve only been talking for five seconds and Takeru’s blood is a thousand degrees higher than it should be.

“Infatuations!?” Takeru bellows, drawing the attention of far too many people. “I’d _love_ to be infatuated with you, if you could stand being around me for five fucking seconds! Do you talk to this guy like that too? Or is it just me? I thought maybe Yusaku was an exception but he doesn’t know what to do when you start gettin’ mouthy either, so I guess the only way to deal with you is to just sit and ta—”

“Revolver-sama,” the man at his right starts in with, “is this your roommate I’ve heard so much of?”

Re… volver?

Takeru’s mind goes blank, teeth clamping together as Ryoken keeps his eyes burning through Takeru’s lenses, and he answers, “yes, the one who’s always interrupting our calls.”

“Why’s he addressing you like that?” poses Takeru with a point.

“Ah, sorry. I guess I let that slip out in public,” the other man amends (horribly, Takeru might add). “We met online and got to know one other without learning our true names. Calling him Revolver is a nickname of sorts. He always takes charge while we’re rushing the enemy team. The honorific is simply a habit.”

Squinting, eyes all but a sliver of disgust, Takeru wonders if there’s a reason this guy talks like this, in a way that’s so faux sensual that it sounds nothing but flawlessly uncanny and unwieldy in his ears. How Ryoken can remain so calm when such a drooling servant is standing beside him, still holding his red cup in both hands all daintily as if awaiting his prince to take a sip from his chalice. Really, Ryoken doesn’t seem phased in the slightest by how honeyed this man’s tongue is or the bedroom lashes he’s giving him while standing mere inches from his boyfriend.

As if sensing something unruly’s about to slide out of Takeru’s mouth, Ryoken straightens his back up and says, “I’m not in attendance to listen to you berate me childishly in front of spectators. In chasing me down, you’ve left Yusaku alone to get wasted. Run along now and enjoy the rest of your night.” He gestures limp-wristed for Takeru to get a move on and Takeru nearly slaps his hand out of the air wrathfully.

That’s enough. That’s _really_ enough.

“Don’t ‘shoo’ me off, you fuckin’ asshole. I’m your boyfriend. Why do you treat me like this?”

“I’m _busy—_ ”

“No, that’s not an excuse!”

Ryoken’s face twists to one of aggravation. “Stop trying to make a scene for no good reason. You’re being a child. We’re going to talk later about this.”

Talk later about this? What, is he Takeru’s fucking _dad_?

Snarling, he opens his mouth to say as much before witnessing the delicate smirk playing on the edges of his friend’s face as he sips his alcohol slowly. Takeru’s mouth goes dry.

“No, we’re not talking about _shit_ because we’re over.”

Locking eyes with Ryoken’s friend, Takeru forces an absolutely dirty smile and spits, “hope you like bratty bottoms who think that they’re God’s gift to your dick ‘cause they spent four hours in the bathroom bleaching their asshole.”

The sheer shock spread across both of their faces should’ve been photographed and preserved—hung up in an art gallery or stapled to Takeru’s resume. High off the whites of their eyes, Takeru shoves past and makes his exit out the back door.

* * *

Alright, Ryoken decides. You don’t get to keep him up at four o’clock belting some hyper-symphonic rendition of “Genie in a Bottle” in the shower and take pot shots at how _Ryoken_ spends his time in the bathroom. As if it was a negative personality trait to be well kept and cleanly. Ryoken supposes he’ll keep his more biting and explosive-worthy snipes to himself for now, having much more grace than to announce after him, “sorry I’m too hygienic to live up to your scent kink,” and ruin his chances of finding a rebound in this very room.

He also had to keep in mind that his lover had to go home with him. No need to involve Yusaku in such a low blow.

“Does he do this oft?” Spectre asks and Ryoken wishes he could bottle his exasperation and inject every ounce of it into his, “yes.”

Alcohol splashing into his gums and setting his belly on fire, Ryoken lets the burn ride down and his next smile comes easy. He hands the cup off to Spectre, holding the rim between his fingers and smirking.

“Hopefully this time will be the last if past encounters are anything to go by,” he says, rubbing his finger and thumb together to find residue left behind that he licks clean, noting the way Spectre’s eyes follow the motion.

Takeru isn’t wrong to think that his dear companion may have feelings for him, but it isn’t in Ryoken’s nature to reciprocate where he feels it unnecessary, nor does he feel the need to point out what isn’t being acted upon. Maybe it’s cruel of him to be so aware of Spectre’s true emotions and willfully ignore them while reaping all the benefits therein.

The fact remains that he never _asked_ to have his full undivided attention, and as much as he could (and did) burn Takeru for his lack of a greater friend circle, Spectre remains stitched to his very hip for the very same reason. The difference is that Spectre doesn’t piss him off, only occasionally try and apply his lip balm for him which… what the fuck? But Ryoken plays along because a free meal at Olive Garden is still a free meal at Olive Garden.

“It’s a shame,” Spectre says over the crowd of people that have begun twirling and rocking to the song now bumping through the walls, taking the cup in his hand and gulping it down.

“What is?”

“For him to lose someone so special.”

To this compliment, Ryoken smiles as he usually does (which is to say egregiously and smugly) while huffing something inaudible and sparse, because you can never be too apathetic to an obvious suitor.

“I hope he doesn’t drink himself too stupid. I’ll make sure to call a Lyft for him and Yusaku.”

“Leave them to that,” Spectre says, noticeably taking another massive sip and flicking his tongue out like a snake. “You aren’t going to babysit your boyfriend and your ex tonight, are you?”

Well, no. Ryoken will never go beyond his means because it’s troublesome and annoying, but it’s perfectly reasonable to ensure that the two of them get home safe. Glancing in the direction Takeru had just stormed in from, the kitchen counter is littered with over-turned cups and one wall wisteria, glued to his phone. He looks up once just in time for Ryoken to gesture a small heart with finger and thumb. Yusaku returns the signal with all the enthusiasm of an anemic 9-to-5’er.

Ryoken smiles. He can sense the warmth in that Yusaku bothered at all.

“No, but I will make sure at least one of them doesn’t die tonight.”

Isn’t it wonderful how some relationships can have such a marked lack of responsibility while others wore you down like a consistently rising tide? Not that he and Yusaku were perfect (they were), but Yusaku was remarkably low maintenance in comparison to the fiery Takeru.

Still, there was something desirable about how badly Takeru pined for his attention whereas Yusaku seemed capable of surviving without it. It was one polar opposite to the other with regards to clinginess and affection.

Yusaku was blind when it came to the art of romance but he showed his love in ways most obvious and plain. He responded well when addressed first, would always say what he felt when he felt it, and would typically only message when he had something of import to express.

Takeru was quite possibly the only one to blow up a phone quicker than Ryoken and with nothing more exciting than his wet dream about NJPW pro wrestler Go Onizuka. And yet… there was something of a charm in it that he could not deny.

Funny that, how both he and Spectre were fools for his affection, falling all over themselves either in anger or irrationally selfless adoration in spite of his mostly withdrawn nature. He couldn’t help it that he felt compelled to chase after the one offering him stark indifference half the time. Something about feeling the need to _prove_ his worth.

It was simple power and control: Ryoken felt more in command when he could deny others his time and presence, dictate and tailor the experience. Yusaku remained mostly in control between the two of them because Ryoken could never get enough of him. Takeru however could not get out of his face.

These thoughts marinated however, wondering silently to himself if the slight emptiness he felt in the face of Yusaku’s loose nature was felt by Takeru in turn. Even knowing for years now that Yusaku had been a victim of trauma and wasn’t as heavy on PDA as Ryoken would’ve liked, the nagging insecurity bit at the back of his skull: _why doesn’t he come over and talk to me?_

The answer was simple: he had come here with Takeru and likely already knew of the circumstances, knew that Ryoken had come with a friend and was peacefully letting him have their time together alone.

The twists inside Ryoken’s mind were aplenty: Yusaku was just placating him, coasting on by while never truly being in love.

Such a look of misplaced boredom was scrawled along his jaw as he stood, eye-deep into his mobile device and oblivious to the prancing, wildly expanding party around him. It had the power to suffocate him, and all at once Ryoken could remember exactly why it was that he kept Takeru around: he didn’t feel nearly as desperate crawling back to him knowing that Takeru always wanted him whenever, wherever.

“Revolver-sama?” drones Spectre, voice cutting messily through the fog in Ryoken’s head.

Ryoken blinks with sudden knowing, seeing Yusaku’s left the counter where he once had been peering toward.

“Where’d he…”

Spinning on his heels, he nearly knocks Spectre completely into the wall and their legs tangle.

“ _Fuck!_ ”

* * *

The party doesn’t stop outside the sliding glass door leading out. Wasted bodies lay moon-bathing and cackling into the night, poolside and sitting in the grass. The amount of garbage littering the grounds draws no envy out of him for Aoi Zaizen. God only knew when her big brother would finally descend upon the party, shrieking once, twice, three times for every empty condom wrapper stuck in the jacuzzi jets.

It was a good thing, really, that so many people were grinding on one another, having the closest thing to public frottage in the pool and up against the very walls of the house—no one can see the way his teeth begin to clack, the way his glasses gum up with his tears.

 _Pathetic,_ Takeru berates himself, wishing he had snatched another red cup on his way out. Wait, there’s one on the ground unattended.

It isn’t a good decision but he plucks it up and demolishes what’s left of his throat, crushes it, tosses it into the pool. It goes unnoticed. It’s that kind of get-together.

God, the tears are falling now and he really has to make himself become scarce. He can’t possibly let anyone see him get like this, and not about _Ryoken Kogami._ They were not ever truly dating, were they? Just sex. Only sex and the occasional Netflix binge of British Bake-Off (their righteous hatred of Paul Hollywood remains a legendary link between them).

It just… doesn’t feel good. It feels strange for reasons he can’t name.

No wait, he _can._ Whether or not he wants to admit it, he gives a fuck about how Ryoken feels.

He and Yusaku hardly handle their arguments poorly, but in those instances he’s always felt the need to jab his elbow in Ryoken’s side to get him to spill the details.

Ryoken keeps to himself mostly but, you can’t thrive in the same space as someone without seeing some sides of them that no one else gets to see: the way he muffles sobs in the middle of the night on certain bad nights, the way he plans and frets over even the most minute interactions with Yusaku, the way he keeps a list of bookmarks on his laptop full of things other people (even Takeru) link him with the intent of committing it to memory.

And yet, “all I am to him is a fiesty fuck.”

Takeru’s voice comes out hoarse. The alcohol doesn’t even taste good. It just burns and it hurts in a way that he feels he should on the exterior. It numbs the interior.

What a night to realize he’s actually got some investment in a fling. That’s all they’d meant to be, right?

One hand plasters itself against the side of the house and Takeru makes himself absent, hanging his head with the sickness that fails to wash all at once over him. He hasn’t had nearly enough liquor to make himself nauseated. This is all 100-proof Ryoken Kogami.

“Takeru,” a voice says, soft enough that all of Takeru’s insides turn to mush and he turns to find Yusaku lingering a few feet away, worry brewing in his brow and tension in his lips.

“Yusaku,” he answers. “What are you doin’? Are you ready to leave?”

Such an obvious attempt at turning the conversation away from where it’s most assuredly heading makes no tracks at all. Yusaku closes in on Takeru, the sound of his footsteps in the wet grass somewhat louder than the echoing of the party playlist inside. It booms through the walls with a muzzled roar.

“Things with Ryoken didn’t go well,” he states, though it comes out like a question, as if hoping to be proven wrong.

Maybe the tears falling down his face aren’t so apparent in the dark. Maybe Yusaku’s the one who needs glasses. Maybe he’s just reluctant to make that distinction himself. Takeru smiles wetly and says, “not even a little bit,” and Yusaku moves in to hold him.

It’s sudden and not the slightest comforting, and Takeru can’t even explain why. It’s as if his whole brain has turned off somewhere. The nerves in his body respond vacantly to the embrace and he stands somewhat stilted until Yusaku steps back again, holding one elbow in each hand.

“I’m sorry. Do you want me to talk to him?”

There’s a furrow in his forehead now, a look of determination that lightens the load in Takeru’s chest. The answer is most assuredly no, but just knowing Yusaku would bother makes it somewhat better. He shakes his head before hanging it, finding patterns in the ground to be much more appealing than staring someone in the eyes.

“Nah, I knew things would end up like this. I’m just…”

Takeru gestures emptily, wide armed and slow, like grasping at air.

“I thought he’d change. Turns out only I did.”

Yusaku’s frown deepens.

“You care about him,” Yusaku says, making a soft nod of his head as he does, “more than you thought you would.”

It takes everything in Takeru to not curl up his hands, curl up his lips, curl up on the ground and rot away at the thought. Eyes bubbling over, he smooths one hand through his bangs and coughs up a sad sort of laugh. Something like resentment sticks to his throat.

“Yeah,” he admits. “I guess I did.”

And somehow, it hurts more when he finally brings himself to say it.

And as if God himself wanted to yank the final rug from up under him—

“Takeru,” calls Ryoken as he rounds the corner toward them both, and Takeru’s body stiffens as rigor mortis sets in.

* * *

Well that… went atrociously, Spectre recounts to himself. All attempts at fawning over the darling of his dreams have been dashed at every turn: first by Takeru’s sudden intrusion, next by Yusaku’s impossible power to draw Revolver-sama’s attention to him without even trying, and lastly by his aborted attempt at an ‘accidental’ kiss that sent the both of them careening into the snack table. Luckily most of the mini sandwiches were gone. Only someone’s poorly thought out potato salad stained the front of Revolver-sama’s slacks.

No, perhaps he just hadn’t gotten wasted enough for Revolver-sama to take pity on him and sweep him up into his arms, sultry and safe. Maybe call _him_ a Lyft. No wait, Revolver-sama drove them both here. Definitely don’t call him a Lyft. Definitely take him home and ravish him in the same dorm where Takeru has to sleep. Definitely do that.

Has he had enough yet? Spectre’s lost count of the sips he’s had. His sparkling, glittery silver lip balm has left far too many marks on the cups of various party patrons as he makes his rounds without his knight. Yes, he _just_ has to get shitfaced enough that Revolver-sama feels the need to take care of him and the rest will follow suit. He’s got that kind sort of heart. He’s always took pity on him, the clingy thing that he is.

Spectre flips his bangs out of his face and, _oh_ , the room is suddenly so far away. The floor is escaping him and—

“Careful,” a worrisome voice says, yanking up his lanky limbs from where they’d almost rooted themselves to the floor.

“Pardon?” he calls back, eyes finding it increasingly hard to focus clearly on his savior. Yusaku Fujiki stands stalwart, supporting the other man with ease and grace.

No, no no no—this isn’t how it’s supposed to go.

“Where’s… Revolver… Ryoken?”

Yusaku’s face betrays no deeper feelings. One arm is cradling Spectre’s side to him whilst the other is curling Spectre’s own about his neck, forcing him upright as best as he could. The young man wobbles a tad. His gait shivers in response.

“He’s busy smoothing things over with Takeru. He told me to take care of you.”

What? _No!_

Wriggling helplessly, Spectre tries to flee from his side, finding soon that without Yusaku’s tight grasp he’ll be on the floor alone but not sure if that’d be worse than this. Blacking out couldn’t be so bad. Revolver-sama could find him passed out and take sympathy. There were so many other outcomes than this. This was his chance, wasn’t it?

“No, h-he’s my ride home.”

“I’m taking you home,” Yusaku said.

“I saw you… _hic!_ I saw you, h-have a few drinks. Y-you can’t drive me.”

“I ordered us an Uber.”

The flashing lights drew sickness all over Spectre’s brain. The weakness in his body coupled with the weakness he’d meant to feign came collapsing and he found himself going full-body limp in Yusaku’s arms as a result.

This is just as well, he supposes. What better way to celebrate getting turned down than to get white girl wasted and carried home by your crush’s boyfriend?

Spectre musters all the spite in him and throws up bitter breath and bile all over Yusaku’s shoes. Happy Birthday, Aoi Zaizen.

* * *

The birthday girl hadn’t been seen all night. Ryoken, too, could not feel an ounce of jealousy for the explaining she would need to do when questioned about the missing autographed photo of Pat Metheny, or why it’d soon be found in some weird kid’s side closet because he’d mistaken American jazz guitarist and composer Pat Metheny for the Zaizen’s weird relative.

Trash cans overflowed. The sink took up it’s mantle. Dozens upon dozens of sloshed Alpha Omicron Pi students lay circled poolside, muttering to each other about the exam they’d suddenly remembered they forgot. Ryoken searched high and low for Takeru and somehow didn’t come across the mysterious girl in question. She was never the party type and so it went without saying that he had developed somewhat of a working theory in the meantime: she hadn’t thrown this party at all. Someone else in her stead had done so.

This was of no consequence to him, who contributed less than .1% of the total scrap count, but it did make him snicker in a fit of schadenfreude. How terrible of him. The feeling wears off once he slips around the corner to find Yusaku and Takeru all on their own. They both turn expectantly at the sight of him, conveniently missing the new addition of a great yellow stain on his maroon slacks. Proof of God, really. Normally Takeru takes his shots where he can get them. Instead he stands stoic, eyes locked on like missile launchers while Yusaku steps aside.

“Takeru.”

Yusaku gazes back and forth, eyes swiveling between the two before he faces Takeru once more. Just barely over the thudding beats from inside, Ryoken can hear, “I’ll let you two talk,” before he treks back from whence Ryoken had come, maintaining eye contact all the while as if to say something.

Something Ryoken already knows. Before he can even let it come out of his lips though, Takeru takes a step forward and gestures blankly with a twisting wrist.

“Come on, spit it out. I don’t have time to play ‘sorry, I didn’t mean to be a kick in the dick again.’ I’d rather you just get out your anger while it’s there.”

Ryoken’s eyes narrows. This alcohol in him wants to make something softer and warmer out of him and Takeru’s hands look sharper than they’ve ever been while within his reach. He licks his lips wet, training his eyes on the lines in Takeru’s face and how they stain his lenses, recalling a fonder time when he’d found a gentle soul all but waiting for a chance.

It’s not great of him, is it, to suddenly recollect a steamy scene when he’s stood face to face with his torn up boyfriend (not ex, not yet), face muggy with snot and wrinkled with anger.

Somehow he’s only seen him cry a few times: when writhing beneath him and when his parents died, and Ryoken hates that somehow this night has the same impact.

His teeth grind. They squeak in resistance. A ringing fills his ears and Ryoken says, “I don’t want to lose what we have over… these little spats that we have.”

“Spats?” Takeru jeers. “Do you think I’m crying because you’ve hurt my feelings a few times? It’s an everyday thing. Do you even _realize_ how much of an attitude you can have? How much it hurts to be talked down to all the time?”

His voice cracks, and the quiet rage so uncommon is what makes Ryoken bite his lip and feel his heart sink.

“Does it occur to you that you frequently ignore everything I say about personal boundaries, about how I’d like our dorm to be kept, about anything? Don’t you think I feel like you don’t care about _me_ when I have to remind you constantly to treat even the most simple of requests with respect?”

“So what! I forget to fuckin’ pick up my laundry sometimes, so fuckin’ what! So what, I leave a bag of chips out. You _speak_ to me like I’m not even a person!”

“You don’t treat me with respect either when you can’t even pay attention to the simplest things I ask of you,” Ryoken argues, his eyebrows knitting as his lips purse drastically. “I know everything you need.”

Takeru’s shoulders untense.

“I know your schedule, when you need to be up for class. I know that you need the top bunk because you’re afraid of the bed above collapsing onto you. I know that you can only wake up to the world’s most _obnoxious_ alarm and so I don’t complain that I, too, wake up to it every morning. I know to give you space when you’ve got headphones in. I remember the things you’ve told me, your favorite bands and food. I’m attentive. I’m _respectful._ ”

A beat.

“Why is it that you think I don’t like you? Do you think I would waste my time even _looking_ at you if I didn’t at least fancy the idea of your presence?”

“But you don’t…” Takeru sighs, body drooping significantly. “You don’t have to be so… cruel about it, when I forget things. I don’t do it on purpose. I don’t… want to annoy you, man. I go crazy tryin’ to be cool around you, not get on your nerves but I do it anyways.”

Ryoken sighs as well, snorting out something frustrated as he rolls his eyes and crosses the rest of the threshold over to Takeru’s side. Almost as if on instinct, he watches the other boy step back from him, soon finding his spine parallel with that of the wall and Ryoken’s close enough now that they can both feel the vibrations from inside as the bass obliterates party-goer eardrums, dancing along the walls and soon upon their very skin.

Ryoken’s hair stands on end. Takeru takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice leaden with the kind of passion Ryoken could only find in him.

“It’s fine,” the other insists, eyes bouncing around to every shadow in the wall paneling to avoid being sucked into his cloudy grey eyes, delicate and hungry. “I apologize for being abrasive.”

Takeru guffaws, “abrasive doesn’t even cover it,” and collects the hem of Ryoken’s raspberry top in his fingers just so, peering up and down at his body, so near in proximity now that Ryoken can visibly feel the hitching of his breath against his throat.

He swallows hard, the rock that’s freshly formed in his gullet at the way Takeru’s glasses slide down his nose as he tilts his head up and down. Both of Ryoken’s hands paste themselves to the wall on either side of him, leaning one leg a little closer than he should dare, and Takeru says, “where’d you get this stain?”

The sickly yellow splotch in his trousers becomes the object of their attention. They both glint down and Ryoken’s voice comes out steady and heavy.

“A mishap,” he says. Ryoken tries to hold back, feels his heart sweat and he gives in to the easy solution. “Let’s hide it for now.”

Ryoken slots his thigh between Takeru’s, spreading his legs and earning a priceless moan in kind. Oh, maybe it wasn't too sudden. Takeru doesn’t need to be told twice. He never does. How many times has it gone something like this, something like frantic fingers in each other's clothes and hot pink tongues in each other's mouths? Takeru's hands take tender hold of each of Ryoken’s hip bones and grounds his groin into his knee, planting a messy smooch at the base of Ryoken’s chin. The two of them gasp with the contact, finding their fire, stoking it hard.

_Let’s fix all of this, again._

Finding his way to Takeru’s throat, Ryoken’s tongue swirls in symbols and names and phrases he can’t bear to say and he sucks the skin hard. Takeru winces up sharp. Each of Ryoken’s hands scan his ribs, pull the skin, pinch the nibs, wring every sound imaginable from his lips and he tastes it on his intrusive tongue, claiming every inch of Takeru’s mouth as _mine_ and _perfectly dirty_ until he’s panting up names.

“Ryoken,” he hiccups, shirt yanked up to his collar, body trembling and shaking all over.

He watches the way Takeru’s belly untenses and goes taut, shivering like he can’t get a grip on himself. Ryoken smiles. The moon above acts as the only spotlight, highlighting the pink in Takeru’s cheeks, in his nipples and in his fingers, gasping at Ryoken’s hands.

“You need this?” he sneers with a smirk. Takeru holds nothing back in the way his voice splits.

“Touch me all over,” Takeru cries. “I want you. I promise, I wan—”

“Shhhh,” Ryoken coos, kissing his way down Takeru’s stomach. “You take me back?”

“ _I do,_ I do,” he begs, rocking his hips, breath catching on every word he gets out.

The pulse of muffled music, the wet grass against his knees, the look of desperation in his eyes—Ryoken takes it all in. Littering Takeru’s abdomen in little bite marks, Ryoken nuzzles the skin, nurses each bit of upraised skin with wonderful precision. Takeru whimpers loud.

Finally, they’ve both got the same idea in mind: screwing slow and hard against Akira Zaizen’s mansion at fuck a.m. in the morning.

Romance, as a whole, is hereby saved. Happy Birthday, Aoi Zaizen, who did not, in fact, throw this party at all.


End file.
